


When the Sun Sets on Dark Silhouettes

by caughtinanocean



Category: Captain America
Genre: Action/Adventure, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mystery, Non-Graphic Violence, Not-So Secret Relationship, Snark, Spies & Secret Agents, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 02:38:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1328812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caughtinanocean/pseuds/caughtinanocean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky is taken on a mission, and Steve will go against every order to find him. CIA AU.</p><p>
  <i>"When you get him back, what's the first thing you're gonna do?" Sam asks.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Steve very consciously does not think about the state Bucky will be in when—not if, never if—he comes home. "I'm gonna touch him, so I know he's real."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Sun Sets on Dark Silhouettes

**Author's Note:**

> This may win an award for least accurate portrayal of the CIA ever, despite the number of spy movies that have tried. The whole thing started out thanks to a tumblr prompt from [Disappointme](http://disappointme.tumblr.com/), so you know where to direct your complaints.
> 
> Thanks a million to [Odsbodkins](http://captain-foulenough.tumblr.com/) for the marvelous beta job, and to everyone at whom I complained during the writing of this story, particularly [this-girl-is](http://this-girl-is.tumblr.com/), who got the worst of it by far. Thank you, also, to everyone who weighed in on the title—your voices were heard. The winner comes from "Scarlet Fields" by The Horrors.

Steve is on the comms when it all goes down. He's been acting as Bucky's handler more and more often, since the men upstairs decided that Agent Rogers and his big, brilliant tactical brain were too valuable to risk out in the field. So when it happens, Steve hears.

Steve hears the hitch in Bucky's breathing that means he's in trouble, and he hears Bucky taking more blows than he lands, and he hears Bucky go down with a heavy thud that says he's unconscious. 

When Director Fury tells Steve, "Agent Barnes has been taken," Steve already knows.

–

It was just a straightforward extraction—simple, or simple enough. Nothing that should have given someone like Bucky any trouble. It was a straightforward mission—get in, and get out with information. Steve planned it himself.

Except nothing was simple, and Bucky was in trouble, and Steve wasn't there, and Bucky was scared and he is never afraid, and—

The search is mobilized within an hour-and-a-half. Steve is not to be involved in any capacity. The first video comes two days later. They won't let Steve see, won’t let Steve anywhere near it, and he skulks outside the conference room, trying to catch a whisper of something through the heavily-soundproofed walls.

Agent McKenzie finds him later, when Steve is frowning into a cup of coffee. (He can't sleep, and he's exhausted). McKenzie has a flash drive. "Is this really something that you want to see, Rogers?"

Steve can't keep the surprise from his face. McKenzie's a good agent—they respect each other. But as far as Steve knows, McKenzie doesn't like him (or anybody else, for that matter).

"That shocked look does not become you, Rogers. You have more of a stake in this than anyone, so you should be the one looking for him. If you think you can handle it."

Steve takes the drive without hesitation. "I have one question—why would you do this for me?"

"To the men and women in that conference room, Barnes is a box of state secrets the enemy might unlock if they don't get it back fast enough. I, for one, would bet on the highly-trained agent looking for his boyfriend."

Steve sputters cold coffee. He and Bucky have done everything, _everything_ in their power to hide that particular piece of information from their bosses. "You know about that?"

McKenzie laughs—a cocky and incredulous sound. "Oh, Please. I am a trained C.I.A. operative. You have to restrain yourself from proposing on the spot whenever he smiles, and he is no better. Quite possibly the worst-kept secret since J. Edgar Hoover. Now, you and I both have work  
to do."

"Thanks," Steve says, with a small wave of the hand holding the flash drive.

McKenzie acknowledges him with a nod. "I will keep you updated. Do the same for me."

–

Bucky takes a beating like the professional he is, and there's a small part of Steve, amid all the horror, that is proud. The brutal, calculated blows to Bucky's midsection hardly appear to faze him. He's cuffed to a chair, but he still looks like he's in control. Only someone who knows him as well as Steve would be able to tell that he's in pain.

The face of the person administering the beating is not visible. A voice asks Bucky questions from off-screen, in English that is carefully midwestern and flat. The accent is almost perfect, but it falls just short of the mark to Steve's trained ear. If he could just place—

–

"I need a dialect specialist," Steve says.

McKenzie frowns, dramatic eyebrows furrowing.

"So you don't know anyone?"

"No, I know the perfect person," McKenzie says, rubbing his temple. "An FBI agent with a number of such valuable skills."

Steve stares at him for a while, but no explanation for McKenzie's sudden consternation comes. "...But you can't stomach the thought of asking an FBI agent for help?"

McKenzie snorts. "Inter-agency rivalries are foolish."

“Wait, your dialect specialist is FBI, and not part of something more...international?”

“She is quite contrary,” McKenzie says. 

Steve fiddles with his watch -- a poor idea, since the thing is some kind of elaborate spy gadget the agency has been testing out. "So you don't think your friend will want to help with an unsanctioned investigation?"

"No," he says, rather sour. "She would rather enjoy the unsanctioned nature of the investigation. I, however, would not enjoy risking her career."

Steve studies his McKenzie's face with growing comprehension. "It's all right if you want to leave your friend out of it. I'll find someone else."

"Were she to ever find out that I left her out of an investigation because I wanted to protect her, she would make her best attempt at skinning me alive," McKenzie says. "And she _would_ find out."

–

Special Agent Emma Frost of the FBI takes one bored look at the video footage, and says, "Chechnya. The men interrogating your...friend," she pins Steve with a knowing glance, her eyes unnaturally blue and piercing, "are from Chechnya."

Steve tries to speak, but she cuts him off.

"They're on a schedule. The men interrogating him need the information soon. They're going to panic," Frost says, twirling a strand of her perfectly-styled hair.

"How do you—"

"You're good at your job, Agent Rogers. I'm good at mine." Frost rises to her feet and smoothes her pencil skirt. "I would suggest working fast. Your...friend won't do well waiting.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, but Agent Frost's attention is already elsewhere.

“Namor,” she says, her hand on McKenzie's arm, “you're taking me to lunch. I want mimosas.”

–

Steve spends six frustrating hours trying to find a Chechen rebel group with both the means and motive for capturing an American agent. Most of the major organizations concern themselves chiefly with resisting the Russian government, and Steve can find no reason for any of them to want a CIA agent in their custody. 

Steve devotes the next two hours to exploring the possibility that the federal Chechen government is responsible—they are no strangers to torturing detainees, but it seems unlikely that they would send video evidence of their human rights violations, particularly human right violations committed against a CIA agent.

At the end of the day, he's got a pile of files on his desk (more still on his desktop), and a pile of dead ends.

–

Another video comes in the morning. McKenzie hesitates for a barely-perceptible moment that Steve refuses to dwell on before handing over the flash drive. 

"How do you get these?" Steve asks.

McKenzie smiles, smug and self-congratulatory. “There are scant few agents, in this organization and any other, who are not bumbling fools.”

The second video is worse. Bucky's all unhinged-smiles and bleeding nail-beds. Steve's mind wants to just stop when a leather strap is shoved into Bucky's mouth to keep him from biting through his tongue when they shock him, but instead he has to rewind and watch it again. This is all the evidence he has, and he will watch a thousand times if it gets Bucky home a moment sooner.

Steve's on his third viewing when he realizes that he doesn't just have the tapes—he's got Bucky's mission.

Steve goes to work with the plans spread across a table. Bucky was to retrieve a hard-drive full of information stolen from a Russian arms dealer by an undercover agent and stashed outside of Volgograd. It was a _milk run_. Steve and Agent Carter, the handler of the undercover agent in question, had coordinated everything. It should have been easy.

Steve calls Sharon.

–

"No, Steve. Absolutely not."

"You know I wouldn't ask if there was any other way," Steve says.

Sharon tries (and fails) to stifle a laugh. "Really? That's your line."

"I'm off my game," Steve says, shooting her a smile that he hopes is suitably wry.

"A captured boyfriend will do that to anyone."

"I don't need to put her cover at risk, just to talk to her," Steve says. "She'd want to help."

Sharon rolls her eyes. "Talking to her is putting her cover at risk."

"Okay, okay. I guess I need to risk her cover a little," Steve says.

Sharon tucks a lock of her smooth, blonde hair behind her ear, the way she always does when she's thinking. "Her mission is important."

"So is he," Steve says, "and this is the only way he comes home in one piece. The videos are bad, Sharon."

"Should have figured you'd seen them," she says.

"Have you?"

Sharon shakes her head. "They haven't brought me in on the investigation."

Steve tells her, "Me neither."

"As if that's ever kept you away from something," Sharon says, laughing. “If you weren’t so damn good at your job, you’d be in a secret government prison, I swear.”

"So, will you help?" Steve says.

Sharon sighs. "Natasha will call you."

–

"What do you know?" Natasha snaps, in lieu of a hello. 

"I’ve always admired your fine conversational skills," Steve says.

Natasha says, "You should have had Sharon contact me on day one." 

"Your cover—"

"Can get us the information we need."

"Whoever's got him is Chechen," Steve says.

Natasha takes a deep, centering breath on the other end of the line. "I know why he was taken."

"Wh—"

"I've got to go. This is because of me—I'll find out where he is," Natasha says. She hangs up.

–

Sam shows up later that afternoon. They meet outside. As is always the case when Sam feels the need to drag himself away from his work to make sure that Steve doesn't starve to death on a mission, Steve is crushed by guilt.

Sam, who has a world to save and no time for Steve's conscience, gives Steve a look and puts a sandwich in his hands. It's some kind of barbecued meat—undoubtedly grilled by Sam himself—and veggies (on whole wheat, of course). 

Sam says, "Eat."

Steve dutifully takes a bite. "It's delicious, thank you."

"Good. Here's food for the next few days." He sets a reusable tote full of neatly-packed tupperware and wrapped-up sandwiches down in front Steve. "When was the last time you slept?"

Steve shrugs. He doesn't have to look up to see Sam's stern expression.

"You gotta take care of yourself, man," Sam says. "You're no good—to him or the rest of us—if you run yourself into the ground."

Steve offers up a faint little smile. "Guess I'm just not used to sleeping in my bed without him anymore."

Sam's eyebrows shoot up. "I knew you and Bucky where pretty gone for each other, but I didn't realize things were that serious."

"Yeah. If we weren't trying to convince ourselves that every single person at work didn't know we were together, he'd be all the way moved in by now. As it is, half his stuff's there."

"That's the kind of thing a man tells his best friend," Sam says, tone somewhere between teasing and chiding.

"Next time I fall in love with my partner, I'll be sure to keep you in the loop." The joke feels flat, even to Steve. He'd kept quiet about Bucky when he was getting to know the kind, strong person underneath the cocky rookie and the angry kid, and he'd kept quiet when he first fell in love. Sam had known, without being told, that Steve was pining, and when that pining was finally resolved; but when they were happy, when his feelings first became this intense thing that sometimes threatened to overwhelm him for no reason at all, like when he was watching Bucky pour coffee, or listening to him bitch about paperwork, Steve had kept quiet about that, too. The possibility that he might now never get to share any part of his relationship with his best friend sickens Steve.

"How are you dealing with this?" And there's Sam's inner social worker coming out again, snapping Steve out of his morbid reverie. 

"About how you'd expect," Steve says. "It's hard to think about anything other than getting Bucky home safe. And I miss him. That feels selfish."

"Please explain to me how missing Bucky makes you selfish."

"Bucky's suffering. My feelings aren't important," Steve says.

Sam is more than a little incredulous when he says, "Your feelings about your boyfriend aren't important?"

"It sounds stupid when you say it."

"Yeah."

Steve laughs. He's struck with the sudden realization of just how tired he is.

"When you get him back, what's the first thing you're gonna do?" Sam asks.

Steve very consciously does not think about the state Bucky will be in when—not if, never if—he comes home. "I'm gonna touch him, so I know he's real."

–

Steve goes home and sleeps for six hours. When he wakes up, something about his conversation with Natasha that he'd been too tired to question at the time pops into his head. He accesses what he can of the past three months of CIA communications with her—it's not much. He calls Stark, whom the CIA has never been able to keep out of their files.

“Anything for true love, James Blond,” Tony says on the phone. He sounds vaguely manic, like he's on his second day without sleep and his eighteenth cup of coffee. “Or is that a weird nickname for you, because his name is James. But no one ever calls him that...Oooh, a new firewall. CIA, baby, I love the way you keep the spark in our relationship alive.”

Steve listens to him babble for a while, until Tony says, “Okay, we're in. You've got—give or take—one hundred minutes of alone time with the files before you get kicked out. And don't worry—Poppa Fury won't be able to tell you were in there. Wouldn't want you to stop being the favorite child.”

Steve blinks away the frankly terrifying implication. “Thanks, Tony,” he says, but Stark's already off the line, back to building robots or harassing Ms. Potts and Colonel Rhodes, or possibly building robots to harass Ms. Potts and Colonel Rhodes for him.

The first obstacle is immediate—Natasha's communications are in code, and not one of the standard ones that Steve would be able to identify right off the bat. Steve curses. He likes a challenge, but this is going to eviscerate the amount of time he's got with the information. Steve sets a timer, and tries not to think of all the times he'd practice, when Bucky would hold a stopwatch with a crooked grin on his face, watching Steve crack some WWII code.

Not-thinking of Bucky doesn't work, but it only makes Steve work faster. He's broken the code in thirty-two minutes. He's got sixty-eight minutes. An hour is nothing with the amount of info amassed over the course of nearly two years of maintaining a cover. Steve makes a plan of attack—four precious minutes—and digs into the decoded information.

As it turns out, he needn't have worried about time. With twenty minutes on the clock, Steve finally has what he's been missing—a reason.

And the million dollar weapons cache Natasha's mark has offered up for the identity of the CIA mole infiltrating his organization is a very compelling reason indeed.

–

"These are the only two groups that have approached Romanov's arms dealer in the past, and this is the only one that would have anything approaching the resources necessary to intercept a CIA agent," Steve says, animated and gesturing at the files. "They took him because they want the identity of our spy, so they can exchange the information for the weapons they'll need to separate Chechnya from Russia once and for all.”

The look on McKenzie's face would be thoroughly unimpressed on anyone else. On him, Steve knows to count it as a win. "Now we just need to find out where they are keeping Barnes."

"Exactly!" Steve says.

"Rogers—" McKenzie says, a curious look on his face, "you should know that we do not have much time."

Steve's heart sinks. "There was another video."

"Yes, and this one came with a ransom demand...I do not think that you should watch it."

–

Steve has never taken much stock in what he should and shouldn't do. When he watches Bucky howl in pain as the joints of his fingers are dislocated one by one (followed by one shoulder, and then his knees), Steve thinks that perhaps it would be wise to start.

Bucky's torturer walks out of frame. The camera lingers on Bucky for as he lets out a few pained whimpers and tries to get his breathing under control. The screen goes dark; Steve's mind goes with it.

He plays the video again. He doesn't ask about the ransom. He knows the CIA will never pay.

–

Steve breaks the laptop. He's not sure how many times he's watched the video, but his hands ache from the need (and inability) to touch Bucky, to comfort him (and barring that, to wrap around the throat of someone responsible for hurting him). His hands ache and his heart aches, so he breaks the laptop because he's got to do something.

McKenzie comes back when he's done, and gives the wrecked computer a cool glance. "I look forward to IT's reaction."

“I planned the operation,” Steve says. “It's my fault. I should have been on the ground with him, protecting him.”

McKenzie doesn't say anything at all. They spend the rest of the day poring over satellite footage, looking for possible safe-houses in which Bucky's captors could be keeping him.

Sharon knocks on the door of McKenzie's office at three in the morning—Steve hadn't been aware of the time, but when Sharon comes in (the knock was just for show), he checks the clock. “Steve,” she says, “there's someone who'd like to see you.”

–

Natasha sits in an interrogation room. She looks a bit like the cat who got the cream.

“I don't think I have the clearance to know you're here,” Steve says.

Natasha gives him a grim smile. “Clearance has never stopped you.”

“Your cover?”

“As far as Nastya Larina's boyfriend knows, his beloved Nastenka is in CIA custody, being interrogated about his activities as an international arms dealer. It will mean a great deal when she does not betray him.”

Sharon says, “After you two are done, I'm gonna beat the crap out of her.” She and Natasha both look too excited at the prospect.

“He'll be doing all his business from my bedside for a week, reckless from rage at the American scum who dared harm a hair on Nastya's head,” Natasha says. “He's going to give me everything.”

“Everything, huh,” Steve says. It comes out a little bitter. He can't get the sounds that Bucky was making out of his head.

“I thought you'd figure that out. He's going to pay for what he did, Steve.”

“Did you find Bucky?”

“Yes and no,” Natasha says.

Steve watches her, waiting.

“I've seen him. Nastya wrangled an invitation to the captured CIA agent's interrogation,” she says, “I was blindfolded on the way there—earplugs, too—but I can tell you the location within a sixty kilometer radius.”

“That's not bad,” Steve says. He's trying for hopeful, but falls flat. “McKenzie and I have been looking at satellite footage. With the parameter reduced, we might actually have something.”

“He didn't see me—they had a hood on him—but I made sure he heard my voice. Bucky knows we—you're coming for him,” Natasha says.

Steve watches her draw a map, and tries not to think about the possibility of failure.

–

“Maudlin's not a good look on you,” Sharon says afterwards, walking Steve out. She stretches her shoulder and cracks her knuckles.

“You're looking forward to this a bit too much,” Steve says.

Sharon shrugs. “It's gonna be like _Fight Club_ , except instead of blowing up skyscrapers, we get to take down an evil arms dealer.”

“Fair enough,” Steve says.

“Now go find your boy,” Sharon tells him.

–

There are two suitable warehouses and one abandoned apartment building within the radius provided by Natasha. Steve goes back to the videos to see if there are any clues about Bucky's environment—McKenzie threatens him with a truly terrible fate should his computer befall the same misfortune as Steve's own.

But Steve is a man on a mission. He would as soon break the laptop as he would toss his weapon in the river out in the field. Seeing Bucky in pain and being unable to offer relief never gets any easier, but Steve copes because he has no other choice. Failing is not an option, and Bucky does not have much time. Steve watches the videos one after the other. Bucky is illuminated from above with one bare bulb, and it leaves the rest of the room in shadows. They reveal nothing.

He watches the videos again, this time focusing on sound. The audio is of a relatively poor quality, and most of the background noise is hard to distinguish. But Steve catches something at the end of that last and most brutal recording—something he missed because of his own anguish time and time again. He plays the last three seconds one more time, with the volume turned up louder. There's mechanical whirring, and the sound of rushing wind—it has to be a train.

Steve’s somewhere between wishing and praying when he checks the satellite footage again -- the shock of relief that comes when he sees the train tracks next to the abandoned apartment building is overwhelming.

–

Steve comes to Fury with the plan fully formed. He’s got the location. He has a blueprint of the building—there’s no accounting for years of neglect and decay, but the entry points are the same. He has Natasha’s best estimate about the number of enemy operatives in the building, their weaponry, and his own best calculations about the amount of manpower necessary to take the apartment safely -- the amount of manpower necessary to bring Bucky home. Thus armed, he faces Director Fury with principled defiance in his eyes. “Take whatever disciplinary action against me that you see fit. All I ask is to take part in the execution of this operation.”

Fury looks at him, incredulous, and leafs through plans that Steve has placed on his desk. “...We had some of this. The motherfucking CIA is a good three days behind your unsanctioned solo investigation. I wonder how fast you could have solved this thing with backup.”

“Sir?”

“I suppose you’ll have some idea of who you want with you on the mission. I want a list in my hands. Ten minutes. Barnes doesn’t have long, and I’d hate to lose two good agents if we don’t get there in time.”

Steve doesn’t have time to dwell on that statement. “I don’t need ten minutes, Sir. I’d like to request agents McKenzie and Carter. I’m sure they’d like a piece of the action. If they’re available, I’d like agents Hammond, and Raymond; we’ll be jumping from the plane, so I want the Commandos—Dugan, Falsworth, Morita, and Dernier.”

“So you’ve thought about this a little,” Fury says. “All right, Agent Rogers—you’ll have your men. Go find a couch and sleep on it while I assemble them.”

“Yes, sir,” Steve says. His heart is pounding and there is adrenaline in his veins, but he’s going to need the rest. He’s got a rescue to orchestrate, and there is nothing now that will stop him from bringing Bucky home.

–

Three hours later, Steve is on a plane, surrounded by the best that the CIA and various branches of the United States army have to offer. This has to be record time. Fury has “Director” before his name for a reason—his machinations can make the bureaucracy move with terrifying efficiency. Steve wonder what Fury has on Putin—that’s about the only thing he can imagine getting a military operation on Russian soil approved so quickly, regardless of the fact that said operation is against a Chechen rebel group. Steve doesn’t have much time to dwell—he spends most of the nine hour flight briefing various groups on their role in operation. 

“You like jumping out of planes too much,” Sharon tells him. Steve has been neglecting his seat, and he is pacing, parachute already strapped to his back even though they have an hour-and-a-half to go. Bucky is an hour-and-a-half away, and Steve can’t get that thought out of his mind. 

Steve shrugs. “Gotta put that paratrooper training to work. And it’s not like we can land the plane near the location. Extra backup and medical are getting flown in by black copter approximately forty minutes after the start of the operation, with the cleanup crew right behind them.”

“Risky,” Sharon says.

“What can I say? I’ve got faith in my team.”

McKenzie joins the conversation. “Faith is a bit excessive, Rogers.”

“Can’t lead a team you don’t believe in,” Steve says. These are the people he must depend on to help save Bucky’s life—he has to trust them.

When Steve jumps out of the plane, that’s still the bigger leap.

–

They land in the forest behind the abandoned apartment building-turned-enemy base, and rendezvous next to the train tracks. Black parachutes in the night offered them some cover, but a lookout with binoculars would have still seen them. Steve’s hoping for the element of surprise, but not counting on it. 

They descend on the building in three teams—Steve, of course, leads the charge through the front door, while Sharon’s takes a smaller stealth unit up the side of the building to come in through the roof access hatch. Barton stays on the roof with a scope and a rifle. 

Steve takes down the door himself. There’s one bleary guard waiting inside, and Steve knocks him out, quick and quiet, before giving his unit the all-clear. There’s five stories and a basement, with four apartments on each floor, and about fifty operatives living in the compound—safely inside, Steve’s men divide into three smaller teams, one for each of the three lower stories. 

McKenzie, with the bored look of a man who was expecting much more action, takes his team up to the second level. Raymond and Hammond, working in tandem in a way that makes Steve's heart clench in his chest, lead the way to the third story. The ground floor belongs to Steve and the Commandos.

The first apartment is quiet—they take down the door to find two men still asleep inside and non-lethally put them out of commission. There's no trace of Bucky, and they return to the landing. Steve hears the familiar sound of gunfire coming from somewhere above. He picks up the broken door and shields his team. There are four men, armed and waiting for them behind the next point of entry. Steve takes out one combatant with blunt force before any shots are fired—his team takes care of the rest. 

There are hostiles in the landing when they leave the second apartment, still having found no sign of Bucky. A man charges at Steve—he thinks of the videos, of Bucky struggling to breathe through the pain, and shoots. Steve is not a killer, for all that he’s part of the CIA, but he could dispose of every person in this organization without batting an eye. 

–

Steve knocks out another man with the butt of his gun—he’s been in almost every apartment in his perimeter, and no one else has radioed about finding Bucky. He’s getting desperate. There’s every chance that Bucky’s captors gave up on the ransom and disposed of the liability. A woman darts towards the stairs, and Steve raises his weapon, but intuition takes over and he decides to follow her instead. 

Steve creeps down into the dark basement after her, thanking his lucky stars for night-vision goggles. The basement is a pitch black maze, and Steve doesn’t know where to look first.  
He hides behind a corner while the woman talks to someone in rapid-fire what-must-be Chechen. The two of them move through the space with confidence and familiarity, Steve trailing after, blessedly undetected. Bucky always says Steve's got all the stealth of a herd of bison—it’s true, but only compared to the likes of Bucky, who can fade into walls and melt into shadows (and takes great pleasure in abusing those skills).

The woman’s conversation partner has been silent thus far, and when he speaks, a shiver of recognition shoots down Steve’s spine—he would know the voice in the videos anywhere, regardless of language. Steve loses control, then. Lunging for the throat of the man who asked Bucky questions, cool and calm as anything while someone else made him bleed is more natural than breathing. 

The woman pulls her gun and makes a valiant attempt to save her compatriot, but neither of them are any match for Steve, and when it’s done he’s the only one left standing. There’s no one left to lead him to Bucky now, so Steve makes his way through the darkness, weapon drawn, listening for any sign of life—all he hears is the skitter of a rodent. 

He’s considering just shouting Bucky’s name into the abyss when he hears someone speak. It’s a man, gruff, with a heavy accent—Steve can’t make out the words, but he follows the sound. He comes to a closed door, behind which there is a dim light. Steve presses his ear against the thin wood and listens.

“I said, get on your knees,” a man growls. 

That’s when Steve hears the most goddamn beautiful sound in the entire world. “You know, buddy, you gotta be a helluva lot nicer to me to earn that privilege—never mind what you did to my _knees_.” Bucky’s voice is weak and slurred, like he’s barely hanging on to consciousness, like he’s been hit too many times, but he’s alive and talking his captor’s ear off to disguise how much pain he’s in (Steve knows him well enough to know that trick)—and nothing, nothing will stop Steve from saving him now. “And I only do that for one person these days—he smells a mint better than you, by the way.” 

“Shut your mouth,” the man who _has Bucky_ says, and Steve hears the thud of a body hitting the ground. Bucky lets out a pained, shuddering breath, and then goes quiet. 

Steve’s vision flashes white with the rage of it, and the panic—no one hurts Bucky, especially not while he’s in no shape to fight back, and not with Steve on the other side of a flimsy goddamn door. He doesn’t think—just breaks through and goes in blind. 

Standing over Bucky, pointing a gun at his prone form there is a hulking thing of a man. Steve points his own weapon at Bucky’s attacker. “Drop it,” he says. “Or I’ll have one in your head and one in your heart before you can think about pulling the trigger.”

The man laughs. “You wouldn’t risk his life.” He kicks out at Bucky’s prone form, landing a hard strike to his ribs; Bucky moans, but does not regain consciousness. 

Steve’s world narrows to a point—tunnel vision brought about by rage. “Big fucking mistake,” he says, voice lowered to a growl. He launches himself at the man, the enemy, not bothering to shoot. He’s a big man—bigger, even, than Steve, but Steve’s been fighting men bigger than himself since he was a scrawny kid getting his ass beat in New York alleyways. Steve’s not a small man either now, he’s fast and he’s trained and he’s strong. 

There’s a brief, perfunctory struggle, but Steve has the giant disarmed and on the ground in no time flat. Steve’s lip is bleeding from one of the few blows the man managed to land, and his heart is pounding in his ears, rage still coursing through his veins. He pistol-whips Bucky’s assailant until he’s unconscious, and only the fact that Bucky is on the ground two feet away stops Steve from taking the time to beat him to death the way he deserves. 

Steve rises to his feet and takes a deep breath. He drops the bloodied gun on the ground with disgust, and kicks it away from the unconscious body; his own weapon, he places back into its holster. And then, Steve takes the two steps separating him from Bucky’s side. 

He kneels down on the cold concrete. Bucky’s not moving, the rise and fall of his chest the only indication of life. He’s naked from the waist up, a mess of bruises and contusions. His wrists are tied behind his back, which must be hell on the dislocated shoulder—no one’s bothered to even try resetting any of his joints. It’s impossible to decide what’s most concerning—his beaten face, the cuts and burns on his chest, and the mottled purples and blues all over his (protruding—they must have hardly fed him at all) ribs are all strong contenders; his hands are a mess, and all the dislocations look terrible. It’s a fucking wonder he was awake—Steve can hardly believe he heard Bucky talking. 

Heartbreaking injuries and all, he’s the most beautiful sight of Steve’s life, and Steve has traveled the world with this job, has seen the Taj Mahal in the glow of the rising sun. For a moment, Steve is overwhelmed. He doesn’t know what to say or what to do and so he reaches out to touch Bucky’s cheek—his skin is colder than it ought to be, but he’s alive and real and solid, stubble soft against Steve’s fingertips. 

Bucky, apparently now-conscious, flinches away from the contact with a start. 

“Sorry,” Steve whispers, quickly pulling his hand away. Steve presses the button on his comms. “I’ve—I’ve found him. Requesting backup and medical. We’re in the basement. He’s alive. Bucky’s alive.”

“ _Steve,_ ” Bucky rasps out. “Steve.” He tries to open his eyes, but they’re swollen too badly. 

“Yeah, it’s me, Buck,” Steve says. Hesitant, he cups the side of Bucky’s face. This time, Bucky leans into the touch like a flower leaning towards the sun. 

Bucky starts to shake. The relief surging through Steve’s whole being unmoors him—he can’t begin to imagine how Bucky must feel, what this must be like for him. “I’ve got you,” Steve tells him. “I’m gonna cut you free now, okay.”

Bucky nods. Steve pulls out his utility knife and carefully saws through the rope binding Bucky’s hands behind his back. His whole body sags with relief. 

Steve probably shouldn’t move him, but he can’t take the thought of Bucky’s skin against that cold, concrete floor, has to take away the one bit of discomfort he can fix. “Have you taken any severe blows to the back?” Steve asks. 

Bucky shakes his head, and Steve carefully lifts him off the floor, repositioning him so that he’s laying across Steve’s lap, off the ground, head tucked into the crook of Steve’s arm. He cringes a bit while Steve moves him, attempting, with very little success, to take part in the process. Steve spots, for the first time, the lacerations on the soles of Bucky’s bare feet. Every injury is a fresh wave of heartbreak. 

The new configuration is easier on Bucky’s hurt ribs, the relief on his face palpable, even though it comes at the expense of the wounds on his back. Steve brushes a stray strand of hair out of Bucky’s face, and Bucky lets out a soft little sigh. Steve strokes his hair, careful not to apply pressure, careful not to risk causing him an ounce more pain. He’s been through enough. 

There’s wetness on Bucky’s thick lashes—he must be overwhelmed, and with good reason. Steve doesn’t have the words for this, for the unspeakable pain of seeing Bucky in pain, the horror of everything he must have gone through, for the joy and relief of reunion, and the _pride_ he feels at Bucky’s incredible strength, his will to endure.

“You sure came a long way to find me,” Bucky says, voice shaking. Steve can hear the effort every word costs him, how hard it is just staying awake. Steve would tell him to rest, if it weren’t for the selfish need to hear his voice. “You miss me that bad, Steve-o?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. He’s smiling and fighting back tears. “I really did.”

Bucky says, “Good, ‘cause I missed ya, too.”

“You had me pretty scared there for a while, soldier,” Steve tells him. He caresses the side of Bucky’s face.

“Had me scared for a while, too,” Bucky admits. “But you can’t get ridda me that easy, and I guess I can’t get rid of you…”

Steve laughs. “Yeah, we’re stuck with each other.”

Backup arrives, then, in the form of Sharon—weapon drawn, a smudge of gunpowder on her cheek, her hair in glorious disarray, and three heavily-armed Navy Seals behind her. She looks at Bucky and grimaces. “You look like hell, kid.” 

“I’d flip you off, Carter, but…” Bucky’s on the verge of passing out. His voice is rough, and he’s still shaking. Steve knows him well enough to know that running his mouth like that means he’s in pain and trying to keep it together. 

Sharon grins—Steve supposes it’s meant to be reassuring. “You’re gonna be fine.” Then, to Steve. “Medical’s ready for him outside. Let’s go.”

“You ready, Buck?” Steve says. 

Bucky nods. Steve picks him up, bridal-carry style. There’s nary a complaint, which worries Steve considerably—Bucky just acquiesces, pressing his face into the crook of Steve’s neck. Even under these shit circumstances, it feels so good to have him close like this. The basement is easy to navigate, with Sharon lighting and leading the way. Steve focuses on not jostling Bucky too much—a more difficult task up the stairs. “You with me, soldier?” Steve whispers in his ear. 

Bucky nods against Steve’s shoulder. 

“Good, we’re almost there. I bet they’ve got some real nice painkillers for you.” 

Bucky groans at the word. “Steve, I know you missed me, but I ain’t ready for that kinda dirty talk yet.”

There’s still action in the ground floor hallway. Sharon and her Seals close rank around the two of them, Sharon in front, gun held high, and the Seals on all sides. Steve feels incredibly grateful to call that woman his friend, firearms and all. They get Bucky out with hardly any trouble. 

As promised, the medics are waiting, gurney at ready, and Steve hands Bucky over. It’s hard to let go of him, even for that. Bucky’s surrounded by medical personnel immediately—they talk quickly and quietly amongst themselves, moving in perfect synch, getting Bucky’s vitals and taking stock of his injuries. Someone sticks an IV in his vein, and Steve winces—Bucky hates needles. He looks so vulnerable, all alone among strangers who handle him with cold, professional care. 

“Chopper’s ready!” somebody else shouts. Two men lift the stretcher, while another carries the IV. 

Steve watches them take Bucky away, and he’d swear the ache of being separated again is physical.

“Would you like to ride with him, Agent Rogers?” yet another someone-else calls out from the chopper. Steve realizes with a start that it is Doctor Banner, the deceptively mild-mannered MD-PhD who rules CIA medical with an iron fist. If they’ve sent him, the agency is serious about Bucky’s care. 

Steve gives Sharon a questioning look. She waves him off and says, “Go! McKenzie and I have this!”

“Thank you!” Steve says, and then he runs for the chopper, which takes off the moment he climbs on.

He can’t hold Bucky’s hand, but Steve says, “Hey, I’m here.”

Bucky smiles, very far away—they’ve given him something strong for the pain. His voice is very soft. “Steve, Stevie...I knew you’d come. I knew you’d save me.” 

“Yeah, Buck,” Steve says. He’s tearing up. “I’ll always save you.”

–

Steve wakes up with his back stiff from the hospital chair he fell asleep on after Bucky was done with surgery and the nurses finally let Steve back in, but it's all worth it for the dreamy expression on Bucky's face, when he hears Steve say, “Hey.” The swelling and the bruises look even worse in the sallow hospital light. The numerous tubes don’t help. 

“I thought you were here,” Bucky says. He’s hazy from the morphine drip.

Steve reaches out to stroke his hair, scooting his chair a bit closer. “Doc says the surgeries to fix your dislocations went pretty well, all things considering. Still going to need an ‘unholy amount of physical therapy,’ but he says you’re lucky, that the prospects for someone with similar injuries getting treatment in days instead of hours have never been so good.”

“Steve,” Bucky says, “no doctor talk. I have the doctors for doctor talk.”

Steve grins. “Of course—boyfriend talk, only.”

“Best friend talk is allowed, too.” 

“What about partner talk?”

“As long as it ain’t about my dislocated fingers or my broken ribs, you can talk about whatever you want, pal,” Bucky says. He’s falling asleep.

“I can’t believe how bad I missed that smart mouth of yours.”

“You going all sappy on me?”

“You want I should show you sappy, Buck?” Steve leans down to kiss his forehead. “I love you.”

Bucky’s mouth curls into a soft half-smile. “Love you too, asshole,” he mumbles, just before his breathing evens out so Steve knows he’s asleep. 

–

It’s not all sunshine and rainbows. The first thing Bucky says to Steve when he’s well enough for the doctors to start lowering his morphine doses, and he’s not quite so high, is, “You didn’t sign up for this, you know. I’m gonna be in rehab for months and a traumatized mess forever. No hard feelings if you wanted to just...walk away. I’ll survive. Always do.”

“That seem like something I’d do to you?” Steve says. For all that he’s in love, Bucky has always had a knack for driving him insane. When they were first getting together, Bucky almost managed to derail the process at every step with his self-doubt. 

Bucky sets his jaw and glares. He’s obviously in pain since the dosage hit its current low. “I don’t give a shit about whether it’s something you would do or not. I won’t be another fucken’ thing you stick with outta duty.” 

“You’re goddamn idiot, Buck,” Steve says with a sigh. “I’m not stickin’ around just ‘cause it’s something I’ve gotta do. Yeah, I made a commitment to you when we started this thing, and yeah, it’d be pretty low of me to leave you like this, but none of that is why I stay. I’m here ‘cause I wanna be with you, traumatized mess and all. I love you, you ass.”

Bucky says, “Oh.” He’s quiet for a moment, expression uncertain before he settles on ‘cocky.’ “Confirms something I’ve always known—you’re the stupid one in the relationship.”

“That makes two of us,” Steve says, ruffling his hair. 

It’s not the last tense conversation they have on the subject. Steve’s there almost all of the time—he’s on “indefinite administrative leave” “until such a time that the inquest into his unsanctioned actions can be concluded”—it’s paid and Steve knows a gift when it’s handed to him. They’re together so much and Bucky hates being cooped up, helpless like this (Steve still has to help him eat), so, so badly—fights are bound to happen. Bucky brings up Steve breaking up with him every time he’s having a particularly rough day. Steve tries to be understanding—he really does, but he’s human, and he snaps more than once. “If you want to break up, just dump me instead of trying to goad me into doing it,” isn’t something Steve’s proud of saying, but it’s what comes out of his mouth. He’s even less proud of how small Bucky looks after Steve says it. 

(Steve takes a breather, and then comes back to whisper apologies and kiss Bucky’s bandaged hands. Steve thinks that maybe Bucky picks fights for some kind of catharsis, to break something that will heal faster than his mending body and frazzled mind). 

Bucky starts getting visitors, and Sam (holding boxes of non-hospital food) and Sharon (popping open one of the beers she sneaks in for Steve) often wind up pretending not to watch them fight and make up through the glass. Namor, with whom Steve is, after the assistance in boyfriend-saving, on a first-name basis, just leaves if they’re being either “loud or disgusting.”

Natasha comes back from her mission, bad guys in good hands, and some of the fighting starts going her way. She and Bucky argue in hushed whispers about whose fault Bucky’s capture was whenever she visits, and there’s one massive blow-out between all three of them when Steve throws his hat into the ring for that particular honor. 

Bit by bit, it starts getting better (though Bucky’s nightmares only get worse). The day that Bucky drops into Steve’s arms after his first session of physical therapy—sweaty, exhausted, in horrible pain, but grinning—Steve knows that the two of them will be just fine. “You’re so brave, and I’m so proud of you,” Steve whispers in his ear, even though it’s a cliche. Bucky’s too busy kissing him to call him out. 

–

Bucky jerks awake next to him, and Steve’s up in an instant—it’s been like this every night since they let Steve take him home—their new normal. Still in the grip of the nightmare, Bucky curls into the fetal position, hands protecting the back if his neck and the base of his skull. The position’s got to be hell on his still-healing ribs, and it’s heart-wrenching to see him like this, every damn time. Steve places a careful hand on the small of his back. “Hey. You’re home, soldier, with me.”

Bucky jerks away from Steve’s touch—sometimes it helps, but sometimes he just can’t abide by physical contact at all. His breathing is ragged and too fast and Steve can’t do anything but _wait_. A few minutes or a few hours later, Bucky relaxes a little, nods when Steve asks if touching him is okay. Steve strokes patterns in the bare skin of his back, gradually coaxing Bucky into a more comfortable position. When he’s resting up against some pillows, Steve kisses his forehead. “See? Safe and sound.”

Bucky’s lips curl into a bitter ghost of his usual smile. “Sorry I woke you.” It’s an apology he repeats every time. 

“You want anything?” Steve looks at the time. “You can have more vicodin, if you need.”

Bucky gives him a tired nod, and Steve pads out into the kitchen, navigating through the dark to bring Bucky a glass of water. The pills are on their nightstand. Steve unscrews the cap, and shakes out Bucky’s dose. Bucky’s hands are shaking too badly, so Steve helps him bring the pill and the glass to his lips. “‘m gonna get used to you at my beck and call like this, you know,” Bucky says. 

Steve puts the empty glass aside, and kisses Bucky on the mouth. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

“Gonna be a lot less cute when I can do everything myself, but still make you do it instead,” Bucky says. 

“You’re a dirty liar,” Steve says. “As soon as you’re back at full-speed, I doubt I’ll ever have the chance to get off the couch again. It’ll be all you all the time.” 

Bucky laughs (it comes out half sob). “Keep dreaming, pal.” 

He’s still shaking, and Steve pulls him close, mindful of the places where it still hurts for Bucky to be touched. He holds Bucky for a while, stroking his hair, kissing his temple and his face, while Bucky struggles to hold back a breakdown. 

After a while, he calms in Steve’s arms. Bucky lets out a long, shuddering breath. The pain, this time, is not physical. “Thanks a million, Stevie.” (He says that every night, too). 

Steve swallows down the ache and focuses on the man he loves, alive and warm next to him, fighting through every day. “Any time, dollface.” 

Bucky jabs him in the ribs, and Steve bites at his ear, and then the sharp line of his jaw in retaliation. They play-fight, albeit carefully, and giggle like school boys with a secret, and little by little, the darkness of Bucky’s nightmare fades away. 

Steve ends the fight by kissing Bucky’s ear instead of biting. “Let’s get some rest, yeah? PT in the morning.” 

Bucky curses under his breath—he’s been known to compare Carol unfavorably to his torturers during the harder moments of physical therapy—but snuggles in, arranging Steve’s arm around his waist. “Steve?” he whispers, after a while.

“Yeah?”

“I know I kept saying you didn’t have to stay, but I’m so glad you did,” Bucky says. “This would be absolute hell without you. I can’t imagine nights like this alone.” His voice is soft and unsure. 

Steve hides his face in the pillow, because sometimes the overwhelming scope of his feelings for Bucky gets the better of him. He breaks Steve's heart and he makes it complete and he’s the blood that runs through Steve’s fucking veins. “What are partners for?” Steve mumbles into the cotton. 

(Bucky hears, anyway).


End file.
